


Damage Done

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Category: Star Wars: Ahsoka - E. K. Johnston, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: But not too bad I promise, Character Study, Ezra Bridger has a prosthetic leg, Introspection, Multi, No Plot, Sabine Wren has hearing aids, Soulmarks, Soulmates, Violence, but nothing graphic at all, kalluzeb - Freeform, reference to attempted sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: "The pilots called them mynocks, having to be pried off of ships and equipment with muttered expletives and ineffective sharp glares. The messengers and aids called them hazards, having nearly tripped over them a hundred times too many. The old soldiers and bitter scrappers called them relics and antiques, sitting there gathering dust like there wasn’t a blasted rebellion on.Kallus had the esteemed honor of calling them friends; even when, of all people, the inventory droids started a petition to correct their programming. Apparently, they could stay so still for so long in meditation, they would accidentally be counted among the stock. One hundred and eight ration bars, nineteen canisters of fighter fuel, seventy-six gallons of fresh water, three Jedi, two-hundred and five bacta patches…"A play-around with soulmarks, soulmates, the horrors of The Empire, and what happens to innocent rebel turncoats when you let Jedi take off their shirts.





	Damage Done

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When You Pry it From My Cold, Dead Chest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373723) by [Anath_Tsurugi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anath_Tsurugi/pseuds/Anath_Tsurugi). 



Jedi would never cease to confound Kallus on countless levels.

Whenever he got up in the morning, no matter how early he set his alarm for, they were up sooner. It would be pitch black outside, and he would still find them up and about. He would rinse up, throw on his new jacket, head out with his datapad and a flask of caf in hand; and without fail he would see at least one of them up before him. He had begun to wonder if they even actually slept.

Kallus would admit that, in his early days, he would sometimes read the Jedi-themed romance novels that had been floating around. They were illegal, of course, since they were considered propaganda; but that just boosted sales. He’d called it _research;_ a blatant lie, but one he’d never had to defend to anyone but himself. It was a habit that died quickly once he’d joined the academy; however, now that he actually worked with Jedi, he compared notes more often than he’d like to admit.  

In those novels, they slept; but who knew how much of that was true? Kallus knew they meditated, definitely, but could that replace sleep? Were they so connected to the Force that they no longer needed conventional rest?

Also mentioned in the novels was that Jedi were never fussy with where they meditated, but that they did prefer privacy. Only one of those statements was true in Kallus’s experience. He didn’t know if it was a universal fact, or if these Jedi were just nonconformist; but they seemed to only meditate in the place where they were most in the way.

They would kneel wherever they could find a gap and a flat floor; on or between fighters, in pantries and storerooms, in loading bays and quarters, or on the relatively large cleaning droids that ran through the entire facility at a slow crawl.

The pilots called them _mynocks,_ having to be pried off of ships and equipment with muttered expletives and ineffective sharp glares. The messengers and aids called them _hazards,_ having nearly tripped over them a hundred times too many. The old soldiers and bitter scrappers called them _relics and antiques,_ sitting there gathering dust like there wasn’t a blasted rebellion on.

Kallus had the esteemed honor of calling them _friends;_ even when, of all people, the inventory droids started a petition to correct their programming. Apparently, they could stay so still for so long, they would accidentally be counted among the stock. _One hundred and eight ration bars, nineteen canisters of fighter fuel, seventy-six gallons of fresh water, three Jedi, two-hundred and five bacta patches…_

They were made the butts of a million jokes, but Kallus admired them. They were resourceful and focused. No matter where they were, or what they had on hand, they would make do.

Today was no exception. _The Ghost_ was going through one of its regular clean-outs. Trash, waste, redundant data, and important information that was no longer needed and couldn’t be leaked; everything had to go. While they did this, the entire ship was being sterilized and repaired. To simplify the process, _The Phantom_ had been removed, and it now sat just next to _The Ghost_ ; far enough to be out of the way, but near enough that it was still within reach. Paranoia ran deep in The Rebellion, and its place had been earned. Kallus had been among those who’d seen to that. 

It was on the roof of _The Phantom_ , just catching the light of dawn, where Kallus found the Jedi today; curled in a loose ring and bowed as if in prayer. They faced each other, silent and still; the whole thing, ship included, could’ve been a piece of political artwork.

It was only after watching them for a moment when Kallus noticed the slightest movement; their deep, eerily synchronized breathing.

Closest to him was Fulcrum. Her horns reached high enough that they just caught the first ray of orange-pink sunlight. Her beige armor, etched with indecipherable ruins, gleamed slightly. It made her look like a warrior monk from ten thousand years ago. It was a look that suited her.

To her left sat Ezra. He kneeled in Fulcrum’s shadow, which the semi-dark sky had tainted purple-blue. Kallus could see him from the side, and noticed the puff of his warm breath in the cool air. It somehow made him look more alive than the others. His hair had become one of Sabine’s newest masterpieces; it was now in an undercut all the way around his head, and on top it was still long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail. It made him look like a rogue Jedi padawan from the cover of one of Kallus’s old holos.

On the other side of Ezra, facing Fulcrum, was Kanan. He was hard to see from this angle, but Kallus knew what would be there. His new look continued to take him by surprise; without his facial hair, he looked ten years younger. The buzz cut and stubble actually suited him, but it also made him look like the numerous prisoners that served in the labor camps the Empire had set up. Kallus almost preferred the regulation-breaking hair, but it wasn’t his place to say so.

Their newest acolyte sat between Kanan and Fulcrum, facing Ezra. Sabine only wanted to learn to use the darksaber that hung at her hip; but if you wanted to learn one part of Jedi training, you needed to learn it all. She stayed remarkably still, and Kallus was impressed; until her head started to droop, and it became clear she was falling asleep.

Fulcrum’s shoulder twitched. She must’ve opened an eye to send Sabine a look, because she blinked awake and quickly returned to her former position.

Kanan, bless him, had tried his best. But he was a much better parent and C.O. to Sabine than he was a teacher. Fulcrum had been summoned at long last, and she seemed to do much better with her. She was strict, and firm, and never went easy on her. She never slowed down because her pseudo-apprentice wasn’t Force-sensitive, and Sabine seemed to thrive on it.

Kallus felt for her, though. He’d been given Fulcrum’s patented ‘how-to-be-a-spy’ crash-course, and she was an impossible instructor to please. The difficulty of their work and the danger they were all in demanded a high degree of skill and competence; and if you couldn’t live up to that, she would not hesitate to hang you out to dry before you touched any important information. 

As he walked past them, he grabbed a whole tray of caf. It had become a routine now, if they were all there, that he kept them fed and functional. Since they were doing such delicate and necessary work on the ship, and it was on his way, why not give them a boost?

The first person he bumped into was Fenn Rau, who nodded at him and stole a cup of caf off the tray. Kallus didn’t fight him; both personally and politically, Mandolorians made half-decent friends and horrific enemies. It was also for this reason that Ketsu Onyo, who was rubbing off the carbon scoring on the outside of _The Ghost_ , got the first and warmest cup of caf.

He handed one to Hera, who lay under the dashboard in the cockpit, testing the alarm systems to make sure they all worked. Chopper, though normally helpful, was watching out the transparisteel windshield. Every time an unaware rebel walked past and Hera set off an alarm, they would jump and often drop what they were holding. Whenever this happened, Chopper would make one of his terrifying laugh sounds, a metallic chortle that haunted at least a few people’s nightmares.

“Thanks,” Hera said, accepting the caf warmly. “Do me a favor and kick my droid on the way out, will you? He has shield generators to fix.”

Chopper made a string of _whump-whump_ sounds, and other distorted binary clicks and buzzes.

 _“Now,_ Chop,” she ordered. While most people who even spoke to Chopper got electrocuted on principle, Hera had enough sway that Chopper, initially at least, did what she said. With a resigned whine, he trailed off, treads whirring as he went.

After that, he stopped by Zeb. While the others’ thank yous had been basic, Zeb decided that the best thank you was a ten-minute make-out session. They probably would have stayed longer, but Chopper rolled by and caught sight of them. He roared out a string of whumps and whines that even a fluent binary speaker would’ve had trouble keeping up with. It was funny; until he pulled out his spark projector and came at them with a horrendous scream.

Kallus grabbed his tray and hopped out of _The Ghost_ while Zeb simply grabbed the edge of the ceiling hatch and swung himself up onto the roof.

_“Filthy rotten-!”_

It was bout five now, local time, so Kallus headed for the Jedi and left his screaming partner behind. If they stuck to their habits (and there was never a guarantee that they would) they should be coming out of their meditation right about now.

Fulcrum, Kanan, and Ezra accepted their flasks graciously, though Sabine looked as if she was about to swear a life debt to him. She was clearly cold and exhausted, and if he knew Fulcrum, her day was only going to get harder from here.

As Kallus made to head back inside, Fulcrum stopped him.

“Thank you again for the caf,” she said, “Would you like to watch us train later today?”

He blinked, not expecting the offer. “I’d be honored,” he answered.

“Excellent,” she replied, “We’ll be in the jungle, two clicks North of the base, right up against the South-facing cliff we use as a vantage point. Bring more caf, enough rations for a small group for two meals, and some blankets. We’ll see you at thirteen-hundred hours. Thanks again.”

Why was it never _‘Come join us on vacation!’_ or _‘Come get dinner with us at a fancy restaurant!’_ Why was it whenever he got invited anywhere, it sounded like he was going to be helping someone move a dead body?

 _Probably because you are a spy,_ he thought to himself, _who is friends with other spies. And rebels. And terrorists._

He felt two massive, hairy arms cross over him from behind, and leaned back into a warm, fuzzy chest. Zeb always ran hot, and he was surprisingly fleecy for someone who looked like he had durasteel cables crisscrossing his body, wrapped in veins and covered in a layer of purple fur.

“Stressed?” Zeb asked. Kallus felt the rumble of the words through his back and into his chest.

“Always,” he answered. “But you help.”

“Damn right I do,” he said, “An’ don’t worry about _the menace._ He’ll keep his trap shut if he knows wot’s good for ‘im.”

Kallus grinned, and for a moment, forgot Fulcrum’s odd instructions and the state of the galaxy.

…

Kallus was not the only person invited along for the training exercise.

He got to the spot a half hour early to set everything up. He had the rations, some clean blankets, and the entire caf machine. Certainly The Rebellion could last without it for a day, right? He had also thought to bring a few gallons of fresh water, just in case.

The training area was a small space where the trees didn’t hug each other quite as tightly. It was situated right against the cliff, which rose so high above Kallus’s head it almost seemed to curve. The ground sloped downward slightly from the cliff towards the base. It was a good little niche. He wondered how they’d found it.

He had just finished setting everything up when Hera and Zeb arrived. Hera sat on the ground cross-legged, between him and the caf machine. Zeb hopped onto a low-hanging branch and leaned back like he was on the beach. Not long after, Ketsu and Rau hiked up to them, helmets in one hand and datapads in the other. They were deep in conversation, but both nodded to them when they reached the setup.

He turned to Hera. “Is this…common?”

“Enough,” she replied, bringing out her own datapad and analyzing her ships’ diagnostic reports. “It’s quiet here. Private. It’s nice to work away from the hustle and bustle; and the veiw’s…entertaining.”

Kallus looked around. All he saw were the trees. At this distance, he couldn’t even see the rebel base. It was pretty, he supposed, with the midday light creating patterns on the ground with the leaves. Every time the wind blew, the shadows moved with it, making the beams of light dance. He could hear the local fauna chittering and chattering away in the trees.

But _entertaining?_

Before he could ponder for too long, the Jedi – and Sabine – arrived. They greeted everyone kindly, striking up a friendly banter, and then-

Began stripping all their clothes off.

Kallus’s brain short-circuited. Jarrus was bad enough; that was like a bad dream. But Ezra and Sabine were _younglings!_ And Fulcrum? She was his _boss!_

Next to him, he heard Hera choke out a laugh. He turned to her, aghast, and she succumbed to even worse laughter.

“It’s tr-training,” she said between guffaws. “N-no lightsabers, no armor, no gear. Just them.”

“Why, then,” he asked, mortified, “Are they removing their shirts?”

Hera had just been trying to catch her breath, then started laughing again. From above him, Kallus heard Zeb chuckle.

“Makes it easier, I guess?” she replied at last, shoulders shaking and gasping for air.

Kallus shook his head and looked around. He saw Ketsu taking apart her blasters, cleaning kit in her lap. Rau sat on a crate on the other side of the caf machine, brewing the first flask. He was wrapped in something on his datapad.

Well…okay then.

Kallus tried to focus on his work, he really did, but the Jedi were just…Far more interesting. Although he tried to keep his eyes to himself, it was impossible not to see the ink scrawled into their skin. He figured this might be a show of trust on their part, but in the Empire, they would have been censured for this. It wasn’t illegal to show your soulmark – not yet, at least -but it was a private thing. You didn’t just…flaunt it. It was for you, and your partner; that’s it.

Once they’d stripped to their pants, they removed their boots and rolled their pant legs up to their knees. Sabine kept a wrap around her breasts, which was pretty standard imperial and Mandalorian affair, but Ahsoka was dressed just like the men. Kallus politely kept his eye to himself in her case. She _was_ his boss.

This was all fine. Really. He got it; training got sweaty. This was probably how all Jedi did it.

Then Kanan took off his mask.

Kallus distinctly remembered the eight-month exodus Kanan had taken for some reason or another. He also remembered the mask’s appearance. He recognized the jaig eyes as Mandalorian status symbols; he’d clearly done something brave. But that didn’t explain why he didn’t just wear it on his armor. Why over his eyes? Why the absence, and the new look?

He had his answer. His face was a mess. They eyes themselves were misty and grey, and slightly deformed. There was absolutely no way he saw out of those. Running diagonally over his face, from the top of his right eye to the bottom of his left, was a red burn. It was fleshy and looked like roasted meat, and Kallus flinched at the sight.

Worse yet, Kallus recognized the mark. He’d seen it before on his trooper’s bodies. He’d even seen it in action, when the Grand Inquisitor had executed Taskmaster Grint and Cumberlayne Aresko. It was a lightsaber burn.

At some point, Kanan had gotten unlucky. Very unlucky. He couldn’t believe this was the first time he’d seen it.

Kanan must’ve sensed Kallus’s reaction, because he turned to him. He gave him a smile; one of the cocky, reassuring ones he had seen a million times mid-fight. Mixed with the raw, dead gaze, it was the stuff of nightmares.

Ezra looked up from where he’d been hopping up and down on one foot trying to get his boot off. He looked at Kallus, having caught his reaction, and followed his gaze to Kanan. His expression went from carefree to carefully blank, and a touch guilty.

Kallus quickly looked away.

He finished up the report he was on, and had moved on to the next one before daring to look up again. He was terrified he’d notice something else; some other irreversible damage the Empire had done to his new family.

He did.

Of all the things about The Ghost Crew that puzzled him, Ezra Bridger having shin armor on only one leg wasn’t one of them. He figured, maybe he could only find one, or maybe the other broke. Maybe he was reaching for an aesthetic, or trying to mimic Kanan’s one-sided armor look.

It never occurred to him that Ezra simply didn’t need protection on that leg. The heavily-welded prosthetic extending down from his knee disproved every theory Kallus had.

It wasn’t his only mark. The two burns on his face that looked like lothcat whiskers were familiar enough, but beyond that he had carbon scoring from blasters grazing his right bicep and left ribcage. His knuckles were scarred over, like he had spent most of his childhood punching brick walls.

Fulcrum was worse. Her right knee was a wreck. Not only was the joint metal, but it was _visible._ The skin above it was a burnt hole. Kallus had a horrifying mental image of someone, maybe an inquisitor, putting their lightsaber through her kneecap to keep her from running away; not severing the leg off, but simply debilitating her in the most painful way convenient. 

 _Her_ stomach had _his_ stomach doing barrel roles. From her right side, above her hips, a horizontal scar ran to just shy of her belly button. When she leaned to stretch, he saw the scar was mirrored on her back, stopping just shy of her spine. It, too, was a lightsaber burn.

For a second he was confused, and then with a sick lurch in his chest, he realized what the scar meant. Someone very cruel had used a lightsaber to try and _slice her in half_. They had stopped, or were stopped, but the damage was done. Every organ on her right side below her stomach had to be at least partially synthetic. The muscles, too. Even if it couldn’t be seen, she had to be just as much a cyborg as Ezra was.

The recovery process must have taken years.

He glanced at Sabine, and he could’ve cried when he saw how well-off she was comparatively. The worst he saw on her were a small, flesh colored device in each ear. Hearing aids, he realized. It made sense. With her proclivity for bombs, he figured there was at least one incident. With how powerful her explosives were, one was all it would take.

It said a lot about what they’d been through that the Jedi were so much worse off than the war-bred trigger-happy Mandalorian exile.

Once they’d finished stretching, they began to work. They circled each-other a bit, getting a sense of where they stood. Ezra and Sabine caught each-other’s eyes, and stepped closer to one another. As Kanan stalked around, putting his back to Kallus, Ezra turned with him, spinning back-to-back with Sabine.

Kallus noticed yet another scar on Kanan; a knife wound to the back. Before he had time to ponder on it, Sabine gave a yell of surprise and stumbled back into Ezra, who made an _‘oof’_ sound as they collided. Kallus hadn’t seen Fulcrum move, but evidently she had.

With that, the fight was on. They lunged at each-other, becoming little more than blurs. They leaped and dodged with supernatural speed and grace. Even Sabine, who wasn’t Force sensitive, was an impressive combatant. This must be what Hera had meant by  _entertaining._

Kallus eventually relaxed. He took to his work, only looking up whenever one of them drifted nearby. In only a few minutes, they were all breathing heavily and sweaty, and their laughs echoed through the branches and leaves. It might be training, and serious training at that, but they found a way to have fun with it.

Kallus also, whether he wanted to or not, caught sight of their soulmarks.

Most soulmarks were confusing. Since they were the first words your partner said to you, it could be anything from _‘Hi! I’m (insert name here)! You are?’_ to _‘I’m going to rip out your eyeballs and force-feed them to you!’_ to _‘Do porgs have knees?’._ Honestly, what you got was a tossup, and shouldn’t really be taken that seriously.

He saw Kanan’s when Ezra got lucky and managed to throw him to the ground. He had two that Kallus could see; one scrawled around his neck like a collar, and one across his shoulder blades. The one on his shoulder was in a forest green color, and though neat, was tilted slightly right and scrawled loosely, like its writer had been in a rush. When he moved, the writing gleamed like he had emeralds embedded in his skin.

_Excuse me! Where can I find the repulsorlift entrance to Moonglow?_

He caught the messier, slightly more child-like scribble on Kanan’s back as he stood up. It was navy blue, and the shade of blue it was shifted with the light.

_Who are you?_

Kanan grinned at Ezra, and leaped at him. Ezra shot straight up, taking to the trees, but his chances of escape were minimal.

The next words he caught belonged to Ezra himself, who lasted about a minute longer before being knocked off his branch. He almost landed in Kallus’s lap, scaring him half to death. He ran his eyes over the boy to check for injuries, and instead caught sight of four (four!) sets of words. Two was rare enough, but four wasn’t even heard of.

The first was written over his back, in the same position as Kanan’s. The letters were green, and almost looked like they were rusting at the edges. It created on odd, intriguing texture.

_I’m the guy who was stealing that crate._

There was another on his lower back, just above the waistline of his pants. It was easy enough to place, even though he hadn’t seen its partner yet. It was multi-colored, going from orange through to pink, purple, white, and blue. It looked like someone had sprayed it onto him with spray paint only moments before, and as Ezra’s sweat ran down his body, he half expected the writing to smear.

_Pretty gutsy move, Kid. If the Big Guy catches you, he’ll end you. Good luck!_

Well that wasn’t concerning. Not at all. Kallus wondered for a second how growing up with that mark must’ve felt, knowing that his soulmate’s first words to him were a compliment, followed by a death threat, followed by encouragement.

The third was on his right forearm, written in careful print letters. It was silvery and shiny.

_You must be new here. You still have life in your eyes._

The final mark was in the same place on Ezra’s left arm, where Kallus only saw it as Ezra stood and dusted himself off. It was bold and black, like ink that had just been dabbed onto a page.

_You’re not going to last two weeks in here. You know that, right?_

The first two marks were obvious; but who were the cynical jackasses on Ezra’s arms? He’d probably never find out.

He caught sight of Sabine’s marks when they took a break, and she came over to grab some water. On her lower back, in the same place and writing Kanan had his mark, were the words:

_Not so much. You?_

Then on her belly, just under her ribs:

_Lost, little sister? It’s not safe for younglings to be up past curfew._

The writing shone like paint, much like Ezra’s mark, but in red, purple, and black. As she turned, the words shifted from basic to Mando’a. That was normal; everyone’s marks were able to be read by everyone else; no-one knew why. Not even the Jedi.

Then again, the Jedi weren’t so fond of soulmarks, from what Kallus knew. They screamed ‘attachment’. Though with a meet-up rate of ninety-nine-point-nine percent, even they had to admit that the Force wanted certain people together, rules and regulations be damned.

He was, of course, curious as to what he’d see on Fulcrum. She was a Jedi, as far as he knew. She had never told him otherwise, and the lightsabers at her belt left little to the imagination.

He only caught one on her; though it was dark by the time he saw it. He caught a glimpse as she leaned past him to pick up a flask of caf. He was packing up the stuff he’d brought to take back to the base.

“Thanks for the blankets,” she said, giving him a smile.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, “Are you staying out here?”

“We are,” she confirmed, stretching. “A Jedi can use the Force to withstand harsh conditions. Tonight, I teach Kanan and Ezra to withstand the cold.”

The quarters and kitchens on the base were temperature-controlled, so Kallus didn’t really know how cold it got on Yavin Four. It must be pretty intense if Fulcrum decided it was cold enough to teach something like that. He frowned in concern, but shook it off. She knew what she was doing.

He nodded politely at her, and was about to turn away when he saw her back as she walked away. The writing was black, but not a normal black. It was...a void. The light and shadows didn’t interact with it at all; it was like it had been poorly-edited onto her back.

_And who are you supposed to be?_

He would see the rest of her writing two weeks later, when they had a similar session in the woods. It was early in the morning. The sun had just risen. The Raada farmers – a sect of the rebellion stationed on one of Alderaan’s moons – were visiting for an important meeting.

The farmers grew food for the rebellion. It was a humble occupation, but it was painfully necessary. Because of that, they were a common target for raids. No section of the rebellion lived in as much danger as they did.

They also dabbled in piloting, and some frankly terrifying IEDs. The woman they had to thank for that was one Captain Miara Larte, who was speaking to Sabine.

The conversation had started with an awkward “So, I hear you like mixing explosives with paint?” They were now chatting amiably about things Kallus was probably better off not hearing.

Fulcrum was speaking with Commander Kaeden Larte, the elder sister of Captain Larte and the leader of not only the Farmers, but the entire sector. She acted as personal assistant to and proxy for Senator Bail Organa. From what Kallus knew, and the many things he didn’t, she clearly did her job very well.

While Fulcrum talked, Kallus caught the words on her abdomen, easy to miss because of her scar. It was a golden-brown, and had somewhat of a grassy texture.

_There’s no one in it._

It caught Kallus by surprise when Commander Larte lifted her shirt to dab some sweat off her brow, and he saw glittery white cursive on her belly in the same place. It was in basic from one angle, togruti from another.

_Why is it abandoned?_

It was later on, and only because he was now watching, that he saw Fulcrum was also an outlier; yet another set of words were written in sky blue over her collarbone. Did Jedi naturally have more soulmates? Was it their connection to the Force?

_You got old._

Its texture reminded him of the jekra plating that made up clone trooper armor; so he hesitantly brought it up to Rex, careful to not mention what the words were. He was still braced for a reprimand for prying, but Rex laughed off his concern and bared his own collarbone. There, in the same glittery white script as on Commander Larte’s stomach, were the words:

_Had to happen sometime, Rex._

He didn’t like to think it became a habit; but doing something so small that he wasn’t allowed to do gave him a tiny adrenaline rush. It became a little bit of a hobby of his; to catch sight of and note people’s soulmarks. He even caught Captain Syndulla’s soulmark; a sentence running around her neck in a ring, in the same rusty green texture on Ezra.

_Words fail me._

That did seem to be the general reaction to Captain Syndulla, alright.

These thoughts all crossed his mind as he lay in bed with Zeb aboard _The Ghost_. Making room for yet another crew member had been simple enough; Kanan had been waiting for a good excuse to move in to the Captain’s cabin, and that left his room empty. If Zeb didn’t mind a change in roommates – and he did not – then Ezra could move into Kanan’s room and give his bunk to Kallus.

Ezra had been ecstatic. Kanan didn’t even get to finish his sentence before Ezra started packing up, rejoicing at the lack of snoring, purple hair, and horrid smells in his future.

These comments, naturally, sparked an argument that continued to this day.

So Kallus had moved in with Zeb; which had at first been awkward, and then amazing. They then followed another rather smug suggestion of Kanan’s; to move the top bunk down to the floor, and latch it to the bottom bunk to make a double bed. It meant the bed now took up half the room, but they didn’t mind.

They made a shelf out of what was the top bunk, simply fitting a smooth sheet of metal into the old hooks. Their, they set their bo-rifles and armor before bed, along with towels, extra blankets, and other necessities.

While lying there, deep in thought, Kallus ran his hand over his chest. It was barely visible in the yellow glow of the meteorite, but just over his sternum, was a loopy purple script. It was, ironically, in the exact same place Zeb kicked him the first time they'd met.

_Only the Honor Guard of Lasan may carry a bo-rifle!_

Those words had been confusing to him at first; then frustrating. And then the bane of his existence. They felt as if they’d been said in anger; but for all he knew, it was spoken as an offhanded fact or condescending comment. He had prayed it was; because if they were angry, that would mean there was a good chance his partner was lasat. And that simply wouldn’t do.

However, the only time it was a real problem had been when he’d met Saw Gerrera’s lasat mercenary. It was all too easy to slip back into the memory; the heat searing his skin, the clouded, smoke-polluted sky above him. The redundant red warning lights blinking at him from the crashed shuttle. Once helpful; now mocking.

Then he had appeared. At first, Kallus thought he was a bystander; maybe a farmer who’d seen the crash and come to investigate. He wandered almost leisurely over to the nearest trooper to him. He looked down at him, curiously, ears perked like a mystified akk puppy.

The trooper was alive. He had a graze over his chest plate that let Kallus recognize him; ST-3902-021. _Jek._ A decent soldier, and an amazing cook. He could make even rations taste good, a trait he said he picked up from his mother.

He was struggling to his knees. Even at this distance, through the grey smoke, Kallus could tell how bad his injuries were. He reached out to the lasat. Reached for help.

The lasat raised a bo-rifle over his head, and crushed Jek’s skull right through his helmet.

It cracked like an egg. Kallus could still see it when he closed his eyes. He collapsed, going limp. There was a massive, irreparable dent right into the right side of his face; like an inflated child’s ball had been popped, and was now sunken and deflated. Then, as if that wasn’t the worst of it, the red appeared. It seeped through the cracked plastoid armor, pooling under his body.

Kallus knew with a heart-wrenching surety that that helmet wasn’t coming off. If he was buried, cremated, whatever; it would have to be with it on. It was too deeply embedded into his head for it to ever be peeled away.

The lasat strolled through his men. Everyone he passed, he kicked or lifted with his feet, shaking them harshly. If they sagged, bloody, he discarded them. If they twitched, or moved, or made a sound, they joined Jek.

Kallus’s eyes followed him. He counted each man and woman who the lasat went through. ST-3956-021. _Luci._ ST-3789-021. _Django_. ST-3582-021. _Palo._

One after one, they died.

He had half a mind to play dead. Maybe if he was convincing enough, the lasat would leave him be. But that wouldn’t work. He could hear nothing, but he felt the smoke start to swirl closer, and the heat burn hotter. His lungs started screaming, and his chest muscles started cramping.

He was coughing. There was no way the lasat – with those tall, mobile ears – didn’t catch the sound.

He didn’t really know how he found the strength, but he did. He climbed to his feet. If he was going to die, he was going to die standing.

Then the ringing in his ears died, and sound came back. He could hear crackling nearby. The forest had caught fire. His men were screaming, sobbing, and coughing. He wasn’t the only survivor starting to choke.

Then his ears caught an out-of-place sound. Whistling. Someone was whistling. It was a jovial tune, one someone might whistle while working or hiking.

The lasat approached him. He was casual and relaxed, bo-rifle leaning on one shoulder like he was toting a bat.

He was the source of the whistling.

Rage clouded his judgement. It wasn’t smart, but he couldn’t bring himself to beg or bargain for his life. The lasat had cracked so many skulls, Kallus was now standing in the congealing blood of his men. Ten minutes prior, they had been joking around and inviting each-other to dinner.

“O- Only an honor guard of Lasan may carry a b-bo-rifle,” he coughed, still choking. There was blood in his mouth, burning in the back of his throat. When he swallowed, the stinging intensified.

“If you are one,” he forced himself to continue. “You…certainly don’t fight with their honor.”

He was panting now. Standing up felt like the heaviest workout of his life.

The lasat laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound that he felt in his ribcage.

“And what,” he asked, leaning in close. “Do _you_ know about honor?”

“I know enough to…not kill civilians. The already down. At least the Empire takes prisoners. _You…_ ”

He gestured clumsily at the carnage around him.

The lasat laughed again. It was sharper this time. Then he paused; and leveled his rifle at Kallus. He notched the barrel under his chin, forcing him to look him in the eyes. The were bright points of yellow-green amid all the grey and red.

“How do you know what a bo-rifle is?” he asked, “How do you know what the honor guard is?”

“I’ve done my research,” he hissed in reply.

“No,” he growled. Apparently, Kallus’s heart was still beating. Hard. Good to know. 

“Imperials don’t know that much about us. We keep ourselves to ourselves; _unlike you.”_

He considered Kallus carefully.

Kallus didn’t see him move; but he heard the roar, piercing his already fragile eardrums. The ground vanished beneath his feet, and his back collided with a tree. The lasat’s claws dug into him, pinning him in place.

He must’ve screamed, but he didn’t hear it.

 _“Who told you about us?”_ The lasat demanded. Kallus felt more than heard the question. _“Who has betrayed us?!”_

Kallus gagged. The lasat smelt _horrible._

“No…one.”

_“LIAR!”_

He felt the lasat’s claws break the skin of his shoulders. He howled in pain. It took him almost a full minute to catch his breath back enough to speak.

_“No-one.”_

Then the lasat stopped. Before Kallus could figure out what had changed, the lasat tore the armor and a strip of uniform off of his right shoulder. Then the left one.

“If pain won’t make you talk,” he hissed, sending a shudder down his whole body, “Then something else might.”

He brought his claws to Kallus’s throat. Disorientated, he thought the lasat was going to kill him. Instead, he hooked two claws under Kallus’s collar with surprising gentleness.

Then he tore Kallus’s chest, collarbone to naval.

Kallus didn’t think he even had enough energy to scream again, but apparently he did. His skin throbbed like it had its own heartbeat.

He felt a calloused, padded hand grab his hipbone. His voice growled right into his ear. “You-”

He paused. Kallus prayed he couldn’t see the writing on his chest. Please, he begged. Let there be too much smoke. Let it be too dark. Let him suddenly go blind. Please.

To his horror, the huge hand trailed up from his hip to his sternum.

Kallus felt a purr of satisfaction role through the lasat, right from his throat to his knees. That’s how close they were now pressed to each-other.

“ _Only the Honor Guard of Lasan may carry a bo-rifle._ ” He quoted mockingly. “Has it occurred to you that your partner might _be_ a lasat?”

Kallus was struggling with consciousness, but he was angry enough to find his voice. “If you’re…what’s considered the average…I certainly hope not.”

That earned him a slap. The blow itself was sloppy, catching his jaw and neck rather than his cheek. He lost two teeth, and felt the claws rake the skin over the side of his neck. Then the hand came back, softer, stroking a gentle line down his face and neck; smearing the blood in the process.

“You’re fiery,” he said. Kallus didn’t like the way he said either of those words.

He leaned in, and Kallus smelt his breath. He gagged again.

After that, the blood loss, the injuries, the shock – it all got confusing. He was told by his rescuers that they got there before anything truly disturbing happened. He thought his definition might be different from theirs.

He trailed the scars on his neck and chest with the tips of his fingers, down to a scar he didn’t remember getting; one that ran from his right hip to the inside of his thigh, halfway to his knee.

He was happy he couldn’t remember getting that one.

From there on out, what had always just been a courtesy – keeping his soulmark private – became something like an obsession. He wouldn’t show it to medics, physicians, or friends. The Emperor himself could order Kallus to take his shirt off, and he’d rather be executed for treason. He had only _just_ reached a point where he could show it to _Zeb,_ of all people.

Zeb’s response had been to go uncharacteristically still. The first time they’d actually done anything together, Kallus had lain down and let Zeb see him. His sharp eyes caught his neck, down to his chest, and then the leg. His ears had flattened against his head, and while before that he’d been making a light purring sound, he went absolutely silent.

It wasn’t something they’d really discussed. Zeb had sensed, that first time, that he’d pushed Kallus as far as he could. They would joke and slip into bed, and do things that made Kallus hope the walls were soundproof; then Zeb’s hand would run over a mark, and go quiet and still again.

That was the point they were at now. Kallus had gotten his breath back, and was warm and relaxed into Zeb’s side. He would never get all the hair off of him, and his sweat certainly didn’t help, but he didn’t mind. Lasat fur felt like velvet, like a warm cloud. He didn't mind being covered in it. 

Zeb was curled around him, heavy limbs weighing him down and making him almost uncomfortably warm. He was like a huge, muscular blanket. He often laughed to himself, thinking of what his old colleagues and instructors would think of him. An accomplished, civilized ISB agent who was now a rebel turncoat with a taste for bestiality. Why he would throw away a career he had worked so hard for, they couldn’t understand.

Zeb made a small mewling sound, pulling him closer. He buried his face in Zeb’s chest, humming in contentment.

“Thoughts?” Zeb asked.

“Wondering how I got this lucky,” he confessed. Zeb let out a pleased purr. It made every hair on Kallus’s body stand up straight.

Zeb ran a hand over his back, then over his hip. There he stopped. The sound died.

Kallus sighed. Maybe now was a better time than any other to deal with… this.

“Remember when I mentioned Saw Gerrera’s lasat?” he asked quietly. He knew Zeb would hear him. “On Bahryn?”

He felt Zeb nod.

“This was him. These scars. They were all him.”

“Why?” Zeb asked. “’S one thing to fight someone. But why kill ‘em all like that an’ leave you alive? Why do _this?”_

Kallus tapped his chest, bringing Zeb’s attention to the curvy, plum-colored writing. “He thought I might have a partner who was lasat.”

“And that’s why he..?” a growl started up in his chest, one Kallus felt run through his bones. It almost made the bed vibrate. He swallowed down the urge to put distance between him and Zeb. “Disgusting.”

Kallus thought for a moment before answering. “I think so. I don’t really know. I was injured, concussed; I only really remember half of what he told me.”

Zeb freed a hand and shifted slightly away so he could tap Kallus’s chest. “How did he see this? You were in armor, right? How would ‘e’ve known this was here?”

“Finding this mark was not his goal when he…” he didn’t finish.

If the way Zeb’s growl suddenly raised a pitch was anything to go by, he didn’t need to. He went stiff, and although his hand on his hip remained loose, he could still feel Zeb’s tension.

“He didn’t actually do anything,” Kallus said. “I don’t remember much after this-” he pointed to his jaw “-but I’m told help arrived before anything happened.”

“Looks to me like _somethin’_ sure _happened.”_ He raised a large purple paw and gestured to- well, all of him, neck to knees.

Kallus shrugged. “I don’t remember. At the end there, I blacked out. Honestly, it’s probably for the best that I did. I’d rather not have known what was happening.”

Zeb’s grip tightened on him, almost painfully. “’M sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for about,” Kallus said sternly. “It’s not your fault.”

They stayed lying there for a long, long time. Zeb eventually heard Kallus’s breathing even out, settling into a slow rhythm. He had often, in the past, marveled at how breakable humanoids were. They were small, and smooth, and had legs that shattered so easily. They were weaker than kits.

When he’d fought Kallus as enemies, his resourcefulness and strength had been frustrating. Most of the time when they fought rifle-to-rifle, Kallus dodged and redirected; but more than once he’d had to take a blow from Zeb directly. How he had, Zeb didn’t know. He hadn’t been pulling back, hadn’t been fighting gently. He was aiming to maim and dismember. Still, Kallus had rarely ever given ground.

Now, knowing that Kallus had experience defending against opponents who were so much stronger – lasat especially – it made more sense. He almost wished it didn’t.

He hoped Kallus wouldn’t have to use that knowledge outside of sparring rings in the future; but he also knew that it couldn’t be guaranteed. Ezra and Sabine’s presence aboard _The Ghost_ was enough proof that when you wanted soldiers, beggars couldn’t be choosers. But at the very least, if Kallus did fight, he wouldn’t be fighting alone anymore. 

Zeb would have to content himself with that.


End file.
